If Only to Explain
by DistrictNineAndThreeQuarters
Summary: 'I have to make it out, if only to explain...' From Glimmer's POV. She volunteers in place of a young girl she barely knows and vows to make it back, if only to explain why she volunteered. A bit angsty, and a bit OOC, but not terribly so. Give it a try.


A/N: I feel like this could technically be considered slightly OOC, but it's hard to say because so little is known about Glimmer's pre-Games life and personality outside the arena. This idea just sort of came to me. I don't know if makes any sense, but you might as well give it a try and some feedback if you have anything to say about it. Thanks!

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Two one-shots from Glimmer's POV, set on the day of the Reaping. I don't know if she actually volunteered or not, but for the purposes of this fic, she did.

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**If Only to Explain**

I don't know her. It hits me that there's a chance I never will. I remember catching glances of her meandering around District One's training centre. She always carries a short, silver dagger. But she isn't much of a fighter. Some people just born without the capacity for brutality.

She's a young, diminutive girl with olive green eyes, short, platinum blonde hair, and an innocent sort of smile. She had probably just turned twelve, but she strikes me as naïve. The kind of person that doesn't understand much about the Games, aside from the fact that they're gory and violent. She probably doesn't grasp the concept of the honour and fame winning brings.

To be honest, she strikes me as fearful, and I wouldn't have much hope of her survival in the arena.

I harbour a small fascination for her, for reasons I myself can't understand. From where I stand, with the cluster of seventeen year old girls, I can see her in the group of twelve year olds, the youngest of the eligible. Her hair is in a small bun, tied with a white ribbon. She's wearing a frilly, ruffled pink dress and a blank expression. The odds are in her favour, and she must know that. Her name couldn't possibly be in the Reaping Ball more than once. We're a wealth district, and precious few people have to take out tessera here.

I always zone out during Reapings. There are a mere six slips in the Reaping Ball with my name on them. I train hard, like every other person under the age of eighteen, but I have no intention of ever being a tribute. This is perfectly fine with my mother and father, who both prefer me alive. Personally, I prefer me alive. Let some other girl volunteer if she wants. Sure, I'd root for her. But I wouldn't exactly envy her.

But I start paying attention at the perfect moment. There she is, the little girl, slowly and awkwardly making her way to the stage as though she's temporarily forgotten how her small, white ballet flatted feet work. I see the girls around me get intense looks on their faces; the expressions people get right before they would-

"I volunteer!" I shout. More like hear myself shout. I wouldn't be fully conscious of my actions for a while to come. "I volunteer!"

"Glimmer!" my mother shrieks. Her shrill voice rings out like a shot in the tepid air.

I hug the girl, the fragile, shaken little girl, as she shuffles away from me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I choke my name into the microphone. I stand on the stage, hands clasped in front of me, eyes stationed on a point above the crowd.

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"I'm trained for this. I promise, I'm going to be fine," I assure my parents.

Ten minutes into my goodbyes and they're already losing it. _They_ should be comforting _me_.

Suddenly, the squeak of door hinges announces another arrival. To my surprise, it's the girl. She walks up to me slowly, cautiously extending an arm towards my knee as though unsure I'm safe to touch. I take her hand. It's small, shaky. She wouldn't stand a chance.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her voice is like her. Soft, quiet, and with the high pitch of youth.

"What's your name?" I ask.

She takes a moment to respond as she runs her little fingers over the glittering gem on the ring on my right index finger. My favourite ring, my preferred weapon, and the token of my District. My father gave it to me the morning of my first Reaping Day.

"Velvet," she finally answers quietly. "Why did you volunteer for me?"

I could tell her the truth. That I don't think she'd stand a chance, that I wouldn't bet on her lasting ten minutes, that I can't bear to think about someone so tiny and vulnerable getting hurt. But there's no time and no room for such emotion. I can't sit there and explain the reasoning of my nagging conscience. My parents would call me foolish. They would hate me for it. And Velvet wouldn't know what to make of it. I don't want to inadvertently make her feel guilty or anxious.

Her wide olive eyes look into mine. I take her other hand gently.

"Because I'm a Career," I lie. "And Careers compete to bring glory to their Districts."

I can tell from the look in her eyes that I was right, that she doesn't understand why anyone would willingly compete in the Games.

"I'll explain it when I come back," I promise, my voice taking on a forced tone of confidence. But at least I have enough training to stand a chance.

"Okay, Glimmer," she nods, wrapping her skinny arms around me.

I feel strange as I hold this barely-known child to myself. Like I've done something terribly noble, but I don't yet deserve praise. Silently, I promise myself I'll return so Velvet can learn the real reason behind my actions. I don't want her to think I'm just in this nightmare for the fame.

I watch her from the window of the high speed, Capitol-bound train. She waves goodbye to me, but she's not smiling. I see a single tear roll down her cheek. I kiss my hand and hold my palm to the cool glass of the window.

'I'll see you in a few weeks, Velvet,' I think to myself. I have to make it out, if only to explain.


End file.
